Discipline
by femalegamer
Summary: Neria Surana never wanted to be a grey warden, or in charge, or really even someone important. As a mage, she was raised to control her every emotion. Watch her mind as both these resolutions unravel. Rating mainly for mature themes
1. Chapter 1

I'm a relatively inexperienced fanfic writer, but I do write gaming adventures (for free online publication, unpaid) and once Green Ronin puts out the Dragon Age game maybe I'll see what I can put together. :) As such, this is one of those newbie kind of tales, where I'm rambling through much of my first play through, capturing my thoughts from the PC point of view. I'm surprising nervous about posting this, even though you're obviously all supportive of us newbs. ;)

This is about my elf mage, and I tried to think what the Tower was really like. Obviously, we have some stories that have captured some of the same feelings I've had. Mine are based partly on having attended a really rigorous engineering school, where we got five hours of sleep a night and wondered what to do with all that free time when we went into the workforce. We called it "Hell Sweet Home" and it's always been difficult to describe to people who didn't go through it. I figure that's nothing to what a mage in Dragon Age goes through.

I'm currently calling the story "Discipline", but I'm not wedded to the idea if people have better ones.

Obviously, this contains spoilers for the mage origin, and in general through Lothering for this chapter.

* * *

"_No evil propensity of the human heart is so powerful that it may not be subdued by discipline." - Seneca_

**Lothering**

I was one of the lucky ones. I was found at the age of four. Why, you might wonder, does that make me lucky? I barely remember my parents. The ones who were older remember what it was to be loved before being brought to that cold, sterile place.

Given the nature of magic, how it's part of one's being, even at four I wasn't allowed to just play. I had long lessons on the evils of demons, on how to imagine building a wall. I was told bed time stories that gave me nightmares that woke me screaming in the middle of the night.

Not, I might add, as bad as the darkspawn nightmares, but I'm a grown woman now. It's quite another thing to have nightmares about having a demon reshape your flesh in its own image when you're at an age where most children are concerned with keeping out of the mud or tattling that Bobby hit them. More senior mages were usually stationed near the children and apprentice dorms, in case they needed to intervene for the nightmares. Or if the nightmares really were a demon latching onto a mage's sleeping mind in the Fade and taking them over.

It happened to another girl who was taken the same year I was brought to the tower. Apparently it wasn't even a powerful demon, just a rage demon. She broke the neck of a boy who had teased her for her freckles before the templars put her down like a rabid animal. I suppose that's what she was by then.

I'm rambling, and that's not good for me. When I think about this too much, I get depressed. I don't have much to cheer me up these days – the Blight is trying to kill us all, for one. Teryn Lohgain has declared all of us traitors to his usurped throne.

When I've looked in a mirror, I always seem to be frowning. I look tired. When we aren't fighting, we've been traveling as far as we can when it's light. I stay up late poring over my books, trying to learn stronger magics, so that I can keep my companions alive. Morrigan has offered a few pointers, but I can't bring myself to learn some of the magics she knows – the entropy effects make my skin crawl. The mind blast, though, that has been invaluable. I know a healing spell, and a cold blast. It was horrific the first time someone hit something I froze and it broke into thousands of pieces… even more horrible when it thawed. Very effective, though.

Having her in camp makes me nervous, obviously. Still, her mother is a very accomplished mage. The necessary discipline must have been drummed into her. On the other hand, she, well, she seems like just the type that a demon would be able to persuade. I am more than a little glad that she makes her camp away from the rest of us. It gives us time to prepare if something happens.

At least she isn't a blood mage. Not that I feel I could identify one anymore. Jowan… he was a little like an older brother. He came into the tower the same year I did, as well, but he was eight, I think. We shared classes, though, and I used to help him; he never quite caught on as fast as I did, which I suppose is why he turned to the blood magic. Or was he telling the truth, that he only turned to it because he wanted to get out of there with that girl?

I understand why they forbid romance between the magi and the templars. Who knows when you might have to cut off your lover's head when a demon takes him?

And I suppose that was how I originally thought of Alistair – within moments of meeting him, I knew he had trained as a templar, one of those figures of doom hanging over our heads if we failed to keep the demons out. Admittedly, he also clearly isn't the dour shadow that almost every templar I've ever met is.

Alistair makes me nervous for other reasons, actually. He makes me laugh, and that's dangerous to my carefully wrapped emotions. Mage apprentices who can't control their emotions have them controlled for them. The Tranquil. The thought makes me shudder. On the other hand, what's the difference between someone who can't feel emotions and someone who can't let herself feel them? Sometimes I wonder if he is trying to flirt with me. You don't see much of that in the tower either. Relationships weren't really forbidden, but again, it is difficult to really get far when you're receiving dire warnings about keeping control. And, well, apprentices all live in dorms anyway. I've heard tales of apprentices sneaking off to classrooms after hours for a quick liason on a stone floor, but I'm not sure how much I credit them. Again, the Templars keep pretty close tabs on us.

Real magi, ones who have passed their Harrowing, are another matter. Although I wouldn't describe most of what goes on as a "relationship". Attachments are dangerous, because they put another handle on you for demons to grasp at, to tempt you about. I suppose it's better than nothing. I suppose. Again, motions without substance.

It was very kind of him to tell me about the nightmares and why. He does have more in common with me than Morrigan, for all that she's a witch, or Leilani. I suppose he's even more unlucky; he was old enough to know those who raised him before going to the Chantry, even if the arl wasn't terribly close to him. I can just imagine him yelling into the quiet, but it's the kind of thing that would have gotten an apprentice strict observation. He makes me think of the tales I read in my sparse spare time, but I'm not sure yet if he reminds me of the heroic ones or the comic ones.

These people are looking to me for leadership, and I have no idea why. Before leaving with Duncan, I hadn't left the tower since I was brought there. I threw up the first time I blew up a darkspawn with my magic and his blood exploded all over everyone and… enough of that. Ugh. Today, we were attacked by peasants who wanted to collect Lohghain's bounty on us. Simple, starving peasants. At least some of them died for it, and some of them were at my hand. And then I argued for the release of a confessed murderer, because he might be able to help us. I almost threatened a priest to do it! Fortunately, Leilani was willing to follow my lead, Maker knows why, and convinced the revered mother.

She followed my lead despite meeting me earlier that day. Because she has dreams sent by the Maker. I have no words. But I let her come with us. Maybe if I keep adding people to our party, someone else will lead us… but I think that's probably just dreaming on my part, no more plausible than Leilani's are.

Here I am, freed from the tower, from the ever-present guardians, and there is nothing right in the world. Blood mage friends, crazy companions, or murderous ones, the Blight coming to kill us all, and people depending on my barely tested skills. It's a wonder I don't throw myself off a cliff.

After all that ramble… I'm keeping a journal because I think it's likely that I won't survive this war against the Blight and want someone to know what my thoughts were. If anyone cares.


	2. Chapter 2

"_Seek freedom and become captive of your desires. Seek discipline and find your liberty." – Frank Herbert_

**Redcliffe**

Assuming someone reads this some day, I forget to include some important information. My name is Neria, and I'm a mage, obviously. And I'm an elf, which may not be so obvious. The tower is run by humans, so I'm not much of an elf. I know of the elven gods, intellectually, but no one was going to teach me that I should worship them, for example. It may be rather sad, but to all intents, you can almost think of me as a pointy-eared, short human. Only slightly bitter.

If my thoughts before were all of how things have gone bad, I suppose now it's about surprises. So I'm traveling with a royal bastard – kind of him to let us know before Lohgain sends assassins to kill him or something. Then again, it shows a certain amount of trust to tell me at all. I suppose, again, I can sympathize with worry that you'll be forced to do something because of your blood.

And, I do believe I was right – he is flirting with me. Maker knows if I'm flirting back, but I think I was. Well, with one exception, when I know I was, because one of those stupid things that you think but never would say fell out of my mouth. He asked me if I had nightmares (like the one the first night in camp, where you told me about darkspawn dreams, you idiot?) and I said, and I quote: "Only ones where we're making mad love in my tent." I've yet to see Alistair speechless, but that was pretty close. I laughed with him, to be sure he knew I was joking. I've had plenty of nightmares, too.

I've also learned that he wasn't very interested in the duties of a templar, which makes me relieved. It sounds like he enjoyed the camaraderie (really? Must have been when they were on break), but was pretty horrified at the only Harrowing he attended. I've only been to one, of course: my own. You'd hardly want apprentices to see what's in store for them, after all. Much like the Joining, I suppose. Knowing what could happen will just make you hesitate. Rather makes me wish that I had not gone third in my own Joining; neither of the others survived. You will be remembered, Jory and Daveth.

At any rate, right now we're preparing for the nightly attacks on Redcliffe Village. What's that? Oh, yes, it's not just that the Arl is ill, there are undead who come down nightly from his castle to attack the village. There is, as always, nothing right with the world. At all. "Convinced" a cowardly bartender, a spy and a selfish arrogant dwarf to fight for the good of the city.

First time I've met a dwarf. He was very hairy, apparently waits an amazingly long time between baths for someone who lives next to a lake, and thought he was better than everyone else. And people keep saying elves are arrogant. I can safely say that mages are arrogant. I'm a mage, I can do that.

Sten and Morrigan thought it was a waste to protect the town and get in to the arl, since they don't think he'll be a big help with the darkspawn. Fine – they can wait in camp. I know next to nothing about the qunari, and Sten isn't interested in sharing. The only reason I don't regret bringing him is that no one deserves to die in a cage like that. I feel sorry for Morrigan – I suspect that she is so selfish because she's never been taught of a sense of duty. On the eve of a battle is no time for me to teach her one, either. I suppose I can only hope that some of us can be an example.

Lothering has been overrun, already. An entire village of people that I tried to help, gone like that. I wonder if any of them made it out. Putting two and two together, I finally started wondering if a young boy on his own that I gave a silver to was from the farm that Sten slaughtered. That will prey on my mind, as well, but I am too scared to ask.

We've prepared as much as we can for the evening, but I suppose I'll stop writing for now. Alistair is bored and keeps trying to read over my shoulder.

(_scrawl of different handwriting_) I was not reading over her shoulder, but I am bored.


	3. Chapter 3

"_Discipline doesn't break a child's spirit half as often as the lack of it breaks a parent's heart." - Unknown_

**On the Road to the Circle**

_(The page is stained with a single blotch, as from a tear.)_  
The battle of Redcliffe was a great success – it was only a bloodbath, not a massacre. I tried so hard… but my healing magics weren't enough and we lost people, like the mayor, that stupid bartender, the spy who was watching the castle… it hurts more when you know their names. Leliana has tried to convince me that without us they would have all died, but what about the ones I convinced to fight? Wouldn't they have been safe in their hidey holes?

Alistair still refers to the arl and Teagan as the king's uncles, as if he doesn't want to think about them being related to him as well. I can see a bit of resemblance in Teagan, and now that I know, to Cailan. Handsome men, all three, even if their features are more blunt than elfin ones. And all so much taller. I only come up to Alistair's shoulder and I'm pretty average; elfin men are pretty similar in height to elfin women, from what I've seen.

Leliana just corrected me. There should be no resemblance between Alistair and Teagan, because he is, in fact, not related to him. He's the king's mother's brother. That makes the arl taking him in all the odder and I suppose more selfless. Anyway, we talked about the fact that Fereldan men, in her opinion, seem to come in either dark and foreboding, or blond and square-jawed, and she's just fine with that. She's an odd woman, but easy to talk to. If necessary, I just let her do all the talking.

There I go rambling again. It's because I'm avoiding the important things. The bann knew a secret way into the castle. But first we were begged to come help with a demon-sounding creature by Isolde – that's the arlessa, the woman responsible for Alistair going to the chantry, because she thought he was her new husband's bastard.

Now that sounds like something out a tale. Not the good kind, in my opinion. I think we're all learning how dark tales can be.

Anyway, I didn't trust her, but we were on our way in anyway. We did find out that there was a mage who poisoned him. And walking through the dungeon, we found out what mage.

Jowan. Yes, my friend that I betrayed was there, locked in a cage and naturally very unhappy with me. What was I going to do, explain to him that I thought the First Enchanter would make everything right when he found out Jowan wasn't really doing blood magic? Of course, he really was doing blood magic, but I didn't know that.

Everything I touch…

I wrestled with my conscience and we left him there. Time enough to deal with him later was my thought. Good thing, too. Turned out the demon wasn't because of Jowan, but the arl's son, Connor. And this is why those of us with magical talents have the wits scared out of us daily from a young age. Deals with demons are never a good idea. The cost is never worth the prize; no matter if it's your own father you're saving.

Or I assume. I never knew my father.

So now they're trying to keep things calm and keep the boy in charge, not the demon, and pinned up in his room while the rest of run like maniacs to the tower for mage's that can send someone into the Fade, where the demon controlling the boy can be … killed? Driven off? Suppressed? I'll volunteer, naturally; who would I send, Morrigan? She's stubborn, but I still maintain that it's not the right kind of stubborn. I don't want to see another child die because of their magic. The problem, by the by, of doing this will all abominations is two-fold: most mages don't see the error of their ways, and keeping them from slaughtering everyone while you go for the cavalry.

The fire provides just enough light for me to write. It's also just enough to see Alistair's face across the way, as he looks at the amulet I found for him. I don't know what made me look in the arl's desk – I suppose it was theft – but we've all gotten used to scrounging anything that we can find. He told me about his mother's pendant, and this looked so like it that I had to assume it was the same one that he had broken as a child. I would give more than my ethics about thieving, I think, to see his face light up like that again.

He took me into his confidence again after that. We'll be in Denerim eventually, and I will help him find his half-sister, and hopefully I'll get to see that shining joy again. We both grew up without a "true" family, and I wonder how I would react to finding my parents or siblings?

Morrigan continues to sulk at the edge of camp. She and Sten are two peas. "Wouldn't it be faster to just slit the boy's throat?" Why, yes, yes it would, and it would be less annoying to slit yours, but by the Maker or the gods above or whomever is listening, I'm convinced at least one of you will be useful someday…

I exaggerate in my frustration. Morrigan spends much of her time making potions for us which are invaluable. Sten just argues with me.

A thought occurred to me. If Duncan had not been recruiting, and the best-case scenario prevailed, I would have remained with the tower. And Alistair would have taken his vows and become a templar. At least it would have been too late for him to have loomed at my Harrowing, but he could have been one of my nightmare figures, watching for control to weaken. Clearly, the Maker arranged for the Blight to facilitate our future towering romance. I've been listening to Leliana too much again, I think.


	4. Chapter 4

"_Discipline is remembering what you want.__ " - __David Campbell_

**After the Tower**

When we were in Lothering, some thugs of Lohgain's spotted us. We let them go, which may have been a mistake. On the way to the tower, an assassin who said that's who hired him attempted to kill us. We spared his life, but sent him away. He told a sad story that he would be killed for his failure, but it's a big world, I'm sure he can hide somewhere, and I'm just not comfortable with someone like that behind, beside or even in front of me.

Oh, how I wanted to get to the Tower and dump all my problems in the First Enchanter's lap, no matter how betrayed I felt by everything with Jowan.

Instead, I had to deal with Gregoir, the Templar knight-commander, the ultimate in nightmare figures for the apprentices. In particular for me – he refused to believe I was working for Irving and wanted to kill me right there, when Jowan was found out. That's how I ended up in the Grey Wardens; it was a quick way out of the situation. Now I know that being a Grey Warden is a slow death sentence, but I may have already died if I hadn't left. And without someone with my learning as a mage, could Alistair and whoever would have been with him rescued the Tower? But I get ahead of myself.

But the closest I'd known to a family depended on me. Irving, if he lived, depended on me. Conner's life was on the line. And these people who'd been looking to me as a leader were watching. I stood up to the knight-commander, with backbone I never realized I had. I suppose it helped having Leliana and Alistair backing me up, but I was amazed at myself.

Of course, that was the easy part. I tried to throw it all in Wynne's hands when we found her, but she would have none of that, claiming she hadn't seen that much combat. I only knew Wynne a little; she had taught a class on healing that I attended, and I vaguely remembered her being at Ostagar… but how could that be? I suppose it doesn't matter, but I suspect that will continue to nag at me, how she survived when so many died.

Fighting the darkspawn at Ostagar was horrific. The walking dead of Redcliffe were disgusting. The tower was a thing of pure nightmare for me, in the most literal sense possible. Demons and abominations, the kinds of things that had tormented my sleep off and on my entire life.

I tried so hard to resist - a great sloth demon pulled us all under, into the Fade, but my new found will came none-too-soon. The demon was, appropriately, lazy. If he had picked another image, one that didn't involve a dead man… then I may not have made it out of my own dream, let alone rescued the others. I was presented with a vision of the Blight purged, but from Duncan. Lazy. As I realized the others were trapped, that was, I realized, when I had another problem, but more about that later. This was the toughest thing I have ever done, traveling through the Fade, solving the riddles of this demon, destroying his lieutenants, rescuing the others from their dreams. I will not speak of what they dreamed; it is not my place to share their secrets. I will say that Alistair dreamed of his sister, and I am even more resolved to find her for him. He has had so much sadness. It was curious that the demon trapped some of us with good visions, and others with bad.

And then we found Cullen. I had no memory of him, at all – a man who professed to, at the very least, lust after me as nothing else. His face wasn't familiar, just another suit of armor clanking down the hallway. And he urged me to kill them all! How dare he!

This outrage fueled the final fight. I sank to the floor, exhausted. And the First Enchanter thanked me for rescuing them. I, only a lowly apprentice mere month ago, was rescuing the entire Circle.

They say there are two great teachers: hunger and survival. I have apparently been an apt pupil of the latter.

Still the cretin Cullen argued that all the mages must die, and expected me to support him! I would have none of that, and to my amazement, the Knight-Commander listened. The mages we need travel to Redcliffe even as we do.

Before I began to write, I huddled next to the fire, wrapped in a blanket, trying to hide my shivers. When we get there, I will have to go back into the Fade, again. The other mages agree that it is likely a desire demon. What will it tempt me with that I must resist again? The fire does little to warm me, I'm _(line ends abruptly)_

Sometimes it isn't fires that warm us. Alistair gave me a rose last night, when I stopped writing, a flower he picked in Lothering, but it was the sentiment that warmed me. He claimed that I was the only beautiful thing he found in this dark world, if I understood him correctly.

He is not a templar. And I believe I have demonstrated more willpower than any other three mages these past few days. In several ways.

We had a singular conversation in which we determined that neither of us knew very much at all about romance, veiling the conversation in metaphor. I would note that there are no lamp posts in the Tower of the Magi, but that's rather beside the point. I would never thought a warrior like that would be shy, but he is, and it's surprising endearing. Much more so than the leers I've occasionally gotten from louts in these taverns we've been in. Is it my fault that mage robes tend to be rather fancifully cut? I admit that these new ones are short, and I'm now wearing odd boot-stockings that I previously would have expected more on a prostitute, but… okay, I'll stop there. I won't blame them for leering if they don't blame me for mind blasting them, hmm? It seems like many of them thing I'm easy pickings as an elf… it seems that the authorities look the other way for such crimes, which disgusts and revolts me. There were advantages, in the end, to being in the tower.

_(in a cramped, hurried hand, faintly)_

I knew I had to make it through the Fade, that I had to succeed against the Sloth Demon. I had to break him out of the nightmare, I had to rescue him. I had to.


	5. Chapter 5

"_We must all suffer from one of two pains: the pain of discipline or the pain of regret. The difference is discipline weighs ounces while regret weighs tons." – Jim Rohn_

**After Redcliff**

The desire demon's thinly veiled offers of sex tempted me not at all. She was an amateur compared with the demon we faced at the tower. Wynne will travel with us and continue to tutor me in the healing arts. We will go to seek the urn, to heal Eamon, so we're on to Denerim, where a scholar lived who knows about the Urn of Sacred Ashes – Andraste's ashes, they say. Then I can dump leading the army in his hands.

Will be good to find Alistair's sister. It will give him something to connect to besides the Grey Wardens. It's been months, but Duncan's death still preys on his mind occasionally. The thought of family of his own seems very important to him.

I suppose I've been avoiding writing it down, because it shows the weakness in my discipline. The Circle owes me leeway. He, Alistair, told me he cares about me. He kissed me, there in camp, under the flame-tinged moonlight. It was quite magical, and rather erases the adolescent furtiveness behind a bookcase that I remember from my past, I have to say. This is who I want to watch my back.

Yes, the demons tempt me with the wrong things, clearly.


	6. Chapter 6

"_If we do not discipline ourselves the world will do it for us."__ - __William Feather_

**Denerim**

Oh dear. Alistair's sister's name is Goldanna, and it's appropriate – she just wanted whatever she could get out of the king's bastard son, starting with gold, and blamed him for killing their mother in childbirth. He kept trying to be nice and she kept flinging it back in his face. What's her encore, kicking a puppy?

Found the house of the man who knew (knows?) about the urn, and thankfully we got pushy. My mood has been getting increasingly agitated, though it's all been beneath the surface. The man's apprentice or whatever had been killed and replaced with some…thing else. We have to find some village called Haven. None of us have heard of it, not even Leliana.

Scribbling this down while we stay at an inn here in town. Ran off some brigands for the local guards - including ones in a brothel, of all places, which was an eye opener for several of us. Not quite brave enough to suggest a room for Alistair and myself (at the inn, not the brothel), so instead we're in a cramped room with bunkbeds that remind me of the tower again, for multiple reasons. I suspect it will drive me crazy to know that he's laying there just below me, but I immediately claimed that bunk because it would probably bother me worse for Leliana or Wynne to be in that position instead. I have apparently abandoned caution to the wind. Maybe that desire demon had some effect on me after all. Would certainly make him forget about that witch of a sister for a moment…

Wynne disapproves. Thinks that we wouldn't be able to sacrifice the other to stop the Blight. So many sacrifices, small and large. Lucky to survive each day, let alone come to a point where that would be necessary. Cross that bridge later.

_(On a single page of it's own.)_

He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.

**Artistic license: In game, Alistair approached my character after Denerim, but I wanted to move it around just slightly.**


	7. Chapter 7

_"You can never conquer the mountain. You can only conquer yourself." - Jim Whittaker_

**Haven**

We've stopped to catch our breaths. We found Haven, and it's full of deluded madmen. Or members of a heretical cult, if you prefer. Brother Genetivi, that expert on the urn, was being held here, and we arrived none too soon for his sake. I mainly stayed in the background; I think they assumed that as an elf, I wasn't a True Believer. We let Leliana do most of the talking; she speaks crazy, even if these people make her look like the most orthodox of sisters. Morrigan is entirely too gleeful about religion "turning people's brains into mush".

Why are there always catacombs below ruins? Filled to the brim with nasty things and nasty people… we made it through, and now we see what we think is our real goal, so that's why we have stopped to catch out breaths. Under, I hasten to add, the very shadow of a dragon. Yes, a real dragon. We've huddled in the overhang of the catacomb exit, and are allowing ourselves four hours of sleep each, with two on watch. Alistair and I have not been as circumspect as we should – Leliana insisted that we share the watch, while Morrigan rolled her eyes and restrained retching sounds.

Given that tomorrow we face whatever bars the way to the urn, and possibly a dragon, caution and circumspection has more or less gone out of the window (off the side of the mountain?). We spent our four hours trying to drowse – Alistair leaned sat against the wall and I leaned against his armored shoulder, pillowed against a blanket. I've never been so cold, and he loosened his breastplate enough that I could put my arm across his chest, somewhat. Not exactly cuddling, but I woke to find him clutching my hand. Or me clutching his. And when he thought I wasn't awake, he leaned over and inhaled the scent of my horrible, unwashed hair. Is this the kind of information to record for the generations? I'm such a romantic. I'm not sure how things looked to our companions, but it is clear that everyone is very cold. Given the earlier conversation, I really don't think we're fooling anyone.

During our watch, we discussed the future in furtive whispers. Elven women bear human men human children, but it happens rarely – like a horse and a donkey producing a mule. Pleasant thought, that. Grey Wardens are notoriously infertile, apparently. When the time comes, and I think it will not be long, I don't think we need worry on that account. We didn't feel comfortable speaking much of that, but my hard edge of practicality shows through, I suppose. He seems like such a jester, but there's the soul of a poet hiding in there; I just meant to speak of where we were going right this very moment, but he began to talk of these subjects indicating a level of commitment that surprised me.

While I write, he patrols a little, though not too far. I will leave this journal cached with some other items, in case we don't return. If someone is reading this in that situation, I am amazed that you found it. How many years, decades, centuries have passed? Perhaps it will be found by a darkspawn and used to start a fire.

The cold saps my hope.


	8. Chapter 8

"_The discipline of desire is the background of character."__ -__John Locke_

**Post-Dragon**

I am a sad, sad person. We went through a gauntlet of unimaginable puzzles that required all of our wits and personal resolve – I faced an apparition of Jowan, but I saw it for what it was. We found a sacred relic, a true relic. We slew a dragon of all things and there's only one thing on my mind to write about.

That Alistair came to me and said that we might not survive the next dragon (!) and that he couldn't bear to wait any longer for some mythical perfect moment. He certainly tried to make it as perfect as he could, though… he made sure there were clean blankets, for one. And that he was thoroughly scrubbed. (And, I should say, his personal hygiene isn't as bad as Wynne thinks. He just sweats so much in that heavy armor. And we all get regularly marinated in blood. Darkspawn blood stings. Undead blood is sludge and tough to get off anything. Dragon blood was surprisingly spicy smelling, like cinnamon and galangal.)

He tends to take the first watch; he wants people to be asleep when he goes to bed, so that any thrashing from nightmares is less likely to wake them up. We talked, then. He was so nervous, and I understand – I had no idea how to approach it either. I just know that I want him, I want him warm and strong beside me, holding me close…

It wasn't like the tales, of course. All the apprentices got The Talk, so I knew that there would be… a certain amount of unpleasantness. I was waiting in my tent for his watch to be done (I take first watch mostly), but wonder of wonders I couldn't sleep. Trying to keep this from our companions – a futile effort – meant no light, and the first thing he did was promptly step on my ankle. But he touched me like I was made of glass at first, as though I might shatter at the slightest misstep. The romance of it all eclipsed the actual physical act, even in the dark, trying not to knock over his discarded armor. We lay together afterward and I felt warm for the first time since before the mountains.

Er, yes, posterity, dead dragons, etc. I pray that the ashes will heal the arl – again, hopefully I can dump all of this into his lap and just worry about fighting and surviving and searching for a future full of love and warmth and being held against a muscled chest. In the light, even. Damn it, my brain is so turned around by all this. We spend half our time splattered with blood and the other half walking around the whole country. This is no time to imitate cooing doves. Death is no foundation for love.

Wynne is looking, almost glaring at me. She's certainly frowning in thought.


	9. Chapter 9

"_In the last analysis, our only freedom is the freedom to discipline ourselves.__ " - __Bernard Baruch_

**Redcliffe Castle, Again**

Remember dumping my problems in the arl's lap? Be careful what you wish for, they say. He has certainly taken charge of things…

Firstly, obviously the ashes healed the arl. He quickly grasped the situation, and decided we couldn't waste our forces fighting Lohgain instead of the Blight; it would be no better than what the teyrn was doing. Instead, he wants us to get Lohgain voted out, essentially.

In favor of Alistair, as a son of Maric. My heart jumped as I saw the sheer panic take his face. He was just beginning to think he had been wrong about the arl, and now he yanked the rug out from under him.

At any rate, he will worry about that; my rag-tag band of thugs, murderers and madmen will continue to get commitments from the elves and dwarves. It will be very odd to see my – my people? Are they really my people? I think we already dealt with my people, at the tower. In particular, I doubt I have much in common with the Dalish elves. It's been six months, I think, already, and I'm very, very tired of sleeping on the ground. I can't imagine a nomadic life as a permanent decision.


	10. Chapter 10

"_It is one thing to praise discipline, and another to submit to it."__ -__Miguel de Cervantes_

**In the Dwarven Lands**

Dwarves, it appears, are much trickier than we surface people every dreamed. They, too, have a civil war on their hands. And until it's resolved, they won't be helping us, because their council isn't allowed to make decisions like that.

I really have no idea who would be a better ruler, but I admit hearing criers yelling on behalf of the prince, Bhelan, set my teeth on edge immediately. And now I've heard rumors that he killed his older brothers. Even if they are rumors, that's very, very unsettling.

I've never been very devout, but their worship of ancestors seems quite odd. Or is it worship? Are they being held as exemplars of behavior, or beings who may intercede, even when dead? It's terribly confusing.

At least one thing is good: it's nicely warm here, what with the lava pools. And I've managed to get accommodations that are more private, though we're still trying to be circumspect.

* * *

We've tried approaching both sides and found the same thing we had heard – neither can help us until one is king. With so little to go on, I admit that Harrowmont seems steadier. We've begun to do some things for him, to demonstrate our support, and this has only strengthened my resolve to support him; the prince was trying to keep Harrowmont's fighters out of this "proving" thing that the dwarves do.

There's no two ways to put this. The dwarves fight in an arena, killing each other for sport and for "honor". I don't see anything honorable about it, but Harrowmon insisted that fighting for him would be absolute proof that we supported him.

I went in myself. I did not want to send anyone else. Firstly, while my friends are all fearsome in their own right, I have healing that Alistair and Leliana lack, but I have offensive magics that Wynne is uninterested in learning. And I didn't want any of the three to feel the guilt of killing some poor dwarf who just wanted to support his prince.

I don't think that I killed any of them. I tried to be careful with the cold spells, because shattering someone is about as bad as it gets.

Still, there were other fights where people died, and the crowd cheered. It curdles my blood, and I want to get out of here as soon as I can. Afterward, we were carried on a tide of "fans" to a bar, and I spoke with a ale-soaked dwarf who told me about his missing wife, and how as a paragon she could support one of the candidates and help us out.

Harrowmont agrees that that would certainly help his cause. It looks like we'll be going into the same deep, dark tunnels that Alistair has told me all Grey Wardens come to to die. My joy knows no bounds.

_(scrawled) She is done writing for now because this is the last time we're going to have an actual bed for some time. And that's all I'm saying, nosy reader person._


	11. Chapter 11

_**Disclaimer: the following is verbatim from the game Dragon Age: Origins. I will take happily take it down if requested to do so.**_

**The Deep Roads**

_First day, they come and catch everyone. _

_Second day, they beat us and eat some for meat._

_Third day, the men are gnawed on again._

_Fourth day, we wait and fear for our fate._

_Fifth day, they return and it's another girl's turn._

_Sixth day, her screams we hear in our dreams._

_Seventh day, she grew as in her mouth they spew._

_Eight day, we hated as she is violated._

_Ninth day, she grins and devours her kin._

_Now she does feast, as she's become the beast._


	12. Chapter 12

_In reading the lives of great men, I found that the first victory they won was over themselves...self-discipline with all of them came first.--Harry S. Truman_

**After the Deep Roads**

So cold. The wind through the tunnels has chilled me to the bone. I keep listening for the horrible whispers. Nightmares of the Broodmother (scratched out)

I can't sleep. My dreams are full of fears of what the Taint will do to me. Why are there no female wardens? Why?! There is no one to tell me and I am scared. Alistair saw portraits, but nothing more. Is that, that thing, bloated and awful in the darkness what awaits me?

I will slit my own throat when the archdemon is dead if that is what awaits me. Foul as any abomination, if not more so.

I am selfish. My own personal horror is great that my heart is numb for the plight of the golems. What monstrous things people will do.

Harrowmont is king. We have what we came for and I cannot depart quickly enough. I write that with amazement. My word made someone king.

What horrors await us with the elves, for nightmares cover the landscape as surely as if we were in the Fade.


	13. Chapter 13

_There are always two choices. Two paths to take. One is easy. And its only reward is that it's easy.--Anonymous_

**In the Elven Camp**

The Dalish elves do not sleep on the ground; they have hammocks that are easily stowed and can be set in their tents or between trees. A hammock is difficult to share and even more difficult to share between a slight woman just above five feet tall and a muscular man around a foot taller than she is. I ended up sleeping on his chest, practically.

And yes, our entire group has gradually realized what's going on and we're too blamed tired to care anymore.

One spot of sunshine today. Helped two lovers come together who clearly did realize that life is far too short to allow smaller concerns get in the way. May the Blight leave them alone to enjoy their happiness.

In darker notes: werewolves. I knew there would be something wrong here. Tomorrow we head into the woods. I have learned I have no affinity in the woods, except an affinity for catching my robes on twigs.

The elves (yes, I know am one. I'm a mage first) have lost so much to these beasts. I want to help all of them, but there's so little I can do. I write so little these days; I'm so very tired, I just want a chance to breathe, a chance to rest. And yet, when we have finished recruiting the elves, it will be time for the Landsmeet.

The arl will speak once more about Alistair on the throne. The other night, he woke from a nightmare, mumbling apologies for offending the ambassador from somewhere. Am I the only one who listens to him about not wanting to be King?


	14. Chapter 14

"_Discipline is the soul of an army. It makes small numbers formidable; procures success to the weak, and esteem to all." – George Washington_

**Back to Denerim**

Another choice made. More lives changed on my word, on my say-so. The elven leader, Zathrien, cursed the humans (he called them shem – just as vile as knife-ear, in my opinion) who hurt his daughter. Except that they died a very long time ago.

Elves, it seems, change very slowly; maybe a trait from when they, we, were immortal, if that's not a tale. Zathrien had tied his life, somehow, to this curse that made the humans into werewolves. Maybe there's a reason that elves do not live as long – I don't think it's good for the mind.

We convinced him that it was time for things to end. It was difficult, but he realized in the end that this had gone far past mere justice, even past vengeance, really. And then we had to go back and convinced the rest of the elves that things needed to end here.

The werewolves returned to normal. In the woods, we met an elven woman who had become a werewolf and put her out of her misery at her request. Everything I touch…


	15. Chapter 15

"_Half of life is luck; the other half is discipline - and that's the important half, for without discipline you wouldn't know what to do with luck. " - __Carl Zuckmeyer _

**To Denerim**

There's no putting things off now. We returned to Redcliffe, and now travel with the arl to Denerim. The arl chatters about who we might bring to our side to make Alistair king. I'm not sure who Alistair looks at less – the arl, or me.

Being a mage isn't just about having the gift. To channel magic, you need to be bright and strong of will. To put it another way: I'm not stupid.

I'm not noble. While sometimes Fereldens marry out of their social class, it's particularly frowned on in a King. Many heroes have been ennobled, though.

I'm a mage. Mages are feared throughout Ferelden. Magic is thought to be hereditary. Noble mages sacrifice their titles.

I'm a Grey Warden. I've been already told that Grey Wardens are frequently infertile. Heirs are important.

I'm an elf. Elves are second class citizens, at best. Most of them spend their lives closed up in those ghettoes they call alienages.

I am not, to put it lightly, royal material. I'm barely horse blanket material, from the noble perspective.

I love him. How much of his protests that he doesn't want to be king are because of me? How much of his fear of the job is my projection, my hope that he would give up a chance like that for me?

We spend many of our nights merely clinging together, as if we might merge ourselves into one, that none may separate.


	16. Chapter 16

"_For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul." - Judy Garland_

**Denerim**

Another choice. The birds sing and the flowers bloom. Anora does not support her father. We rescued her from the palace, and then rescued ourselves from Fort Drakon. (In the time it took for Alistair and I to go from small clothes to fully armed and armored back at Eamon's city house, our companions were debating disguises and having my dog pretend to be ill.)

She asked for my support. Thinking of the fear in his voice, of our desperation, I agreed. I would support her, should I be asked my opinion.

Alistair did not take me to task for making that choice, because I told him immediately. I pray it was my own fears that planted a twinge of regret in his voice. I would not take away a dream, but he has acted from the first as if it were a nightmare.

We found a Grey Warden, locked with Arl Howe's dungeon. The arl, by the by, has brought my opinion of humanity to a new low. He was selling my elven kin of the city into slavery, buying the good opinion of the Tevinter and lining his pockets at the same time, I suppose. I can't imagine the Imperium really being a better choice of bedfellows than the Orleisians that Howe and Lohgain despise and distrust so much.

Riordan is a senior Grey Warden. I can dump things in this hands and just follow his instructions for the coming battle.

As if I still believe I will ever be able to pass my responsibilities on anymore.

In the morning, the Landsmeet will begin.


	17. Chapter 17

"_I am, indeed, a king, because I know how to rule myself." - Pietro Aretino_

**Post-Landsmeet**

Did I rule my emotions or did they rule me?

Anora is Queen. Lohgain is dead. The final battle lays ahead, but we will face it together.

As history no doubt records, the Landsmeet was overwhelmingly against Lohgain. He had answers for everything, but I shared his betrayal of Cailen, the selling of the elves into slavery… I could have gone on, but that was enough. He insisted on a duel of honor.

Alistair has learned so much in our travels. It was a difficult fight, but he was victorious. Who else could I send to that fight? I had made noises of sympathy to Anora, but there was really no question that Lohgain's death was only justice.

Eamon is upset with us – I didn't not let him in on our plans. He does not trust Anora (though I'm not sure if I do) and would have tried to convince us to make Alistair king.

I do not care.


	18. Chapter 18

"_I have found the paradox, that if you love until it hurts, there can be no more hurt, only more love." - Mother Teresa_

And it all came crashing down. A Grey Warden must die to kill the archdemon. The last in a long string of things about Grey Wardens that I did not know, only this is one that Alistair did not know either. Riordan is willing to make that sacrifice, but he is only one man.

Alistair took my frozen hand in his as we spoke. It shook, I think, but we maintained a brave façade. I suspect that if one of us must die against the creature, it is likely that the other will die bringing that chance.

I am not the suicidal type, nor is Alistair, but such feelings can make one… sloppy on the battlefield, I think. But then, there would be no one to rebuild the Ferelden wardens, until the ones from Orlais arrive. I…

I cannot plan in advance. It is the kind of decision that must be made in an instant, or you will lose heart, either way.


	19. Chapter 19

"_Sacrificing your happiness for the happiness of the one you love, is by far, the truest type of love." – Unknown_

_(an entire page has been ripped from the journal)_

It is done. Only the normal perils of the battlefield will await us. I will record nothing else of these events, that they may be forgotten.


	20. Chapter 20

"_It is better to conquer yourself than to win a thousand battles. Then the victory is yours. It cannot be taken from you, not by angels or by demons, heaven or hell."—Buddha_

Poor Riordan. He died the truest kind of hero. And he did not have to sacrifice himself like that. I'm going to commission a painting, though, of him on the back of the dragon archdemon, plunging his blade in. It will hang in the Grey Warden's hall, and remind me of my secret guilt. I tell everyone that he is responsible for the archdemon's death, that he was the real hero.

After all, we couldn't have gotten there without him.

But we are free. We are free to be together. We will rebuild the Wardens, particularly because, ironically, I've been made a Teyrna. That's right, I've been ennobled and Alistair will be a Teyrn and have a title if we wed. Grey Wardens are discouraged from it, and apparently the elves will consider me a traitor for being with a human, but I suspect that will be the least of our sacrifices, and it would be nice to be out in the open.

The elf Teyrna with the secret human lover. Oh, that would be amusing. I shall have to keep an eye out for deserving potential heirs, of course. Clearly Anora wasn't thinking about that one very hard.

Morrigan has disappeared. I shall watch for word of her _(section scratched out forcefully)_

For one who was trained to leave all emotions at the door, and then inducted into an organization known for its stoicism, I have become a remarkably emotional woman. Our job isn't done yet; there are still darkspawn out there, on the surface, and I suspect they will always be darkspawn within my shortened lifespan. But we have each other, and that is enough.

I spoke for the Circle, and they will be out from under the heavy, armored thumb of the Chantry. Andraste grant that is not a mistake.

So ends the tale of Neria, born Neria Surana, circle mage, Grey Warden, Teyrna of Gwaren… if anything ever truly ended.


End file.
